


Begin As You Mean To Go On

by DoubleApple



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Feels, Clubbing, HP: EWE, Hair Kink, Hair-pulling, M/M, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 04:43:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13756563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleApple/pseuds/DoubleApple
Summary: The first time, it was an accident. The second time, Harry’s going to have to ask.





	Begin As You Mean To Go On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carpemermaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpemermaid/gifts).



> Carpemermaid, it was a pleasure to fill your perfect prompt! I was sold the moment I saw it, and I hope you find a few little extras in here just for you.
> 
> Thanks to the incomparable Maccadole for the thorough, thoughtful beta read. Klick! 
> 
> And thanks to the mods for hosting this fantastic fest.

The first time, it was an accident. They’d been in Draco’s bed, at his dodgy flat somewhere near Knockturn. Malfoy Manor was long gone, sold off to pay the family’s bottomless debts.

Trapping Harry’s hair had been nothing but a quick slip during their initial awkward fumbling, too desperately rushed to take off their clothes. Off-balance and clumsy with desire, Draco had pushed his hand down next to Harry’s head, trying not to topple over while they frantically began to explore each other’s bodies.

Moving entirely on instinct, Harry had tried to wrench his head away from Draco's hand. 

His hair had pulled. 

Hard. 

The rush of pleasure that had twisted through Harry's body had been so intense, so overwhelming and unexpected, that he'd nearly come untouched. He’d clenched his jaw and tamped it down, but that feeling — something effervescent, fizzing and bright in his head, behind his eyes, at the roots of his hair — was viciously perfect. He knew, even in that moment, that he’d be chasing it later. 

Draco had moved his hand and whispered a quick sorry into Harry’s mouth, too distracted and turned on to wait. 

Harry hadn’t been sorry at all. 

***

When he’d first spotted Draco from his seat at the bar in a crap Muggle club, Harry thought he might be an illusion. Harry hated that club, hated every club he’d ever been to, but he’d needed to pull that night. He’d needed not to be alone. 

And he hadn’t seen Draco in nearly a decade, but years of obsessively tracking his movements weren’t for nothing. Harry knew immediately: It was Malfoy in a black mesh shirt, dancing slightly apart from the crowd, hair gleaming as though it was lit by a spotlight. No one else moved like that. Harry had just stared. 

After a few long moments, Draco had turned and seen Harry too, hooded eyes revealing nothing. Each acknowledged the other silently. They drew together under the pulsing lights — Harry was still pants at dancing; Draco was a slender, sinuous dream — and then they’d grabbed at each other’s hips and Apparated straight into Draco’s flat, Muggle crowds be damned. Harry still didn’t know how it had happened, exactly. 

They always began by grappling like they were fighting, echoes of their past all around them, bleeding into the present. And then, when the hair... incident had come about, Harry realised that this wasn’t new for the two of them. No one, nothing else, had ever made him feel that way. Trust Draco Malfoy to get under his skin like no one else. 

The morning after that first time, in his own ordinary flat, on edge and too alone again, Harry had tugged uneasily at the hair Draco had pulled. His scalp wasn’t sore; it felt like nothing at all. Harry wasn’t surprised. He was numb nearly all the time, somehow worse off now than he had been in the years just after the war. He was hazy and exhausted with the effort of seeming fine.

Harry wasn’t fine. He was half-remembered nightmares and waking alone in stifling darkness, unable to come out of his dreams for long minutes afterwards. He was forgotten names and side-eyed excuses that no one believed. He was black coffee and its constant acid burn at the back of his throat, sandpaper eyes and bleariness, a body that seemed to work despite him. He was the feeling that he could never take a full breath and hadn’t in years.

His black hair was unkempt and shaggy as ever, long enough that he could tie it back if he ever cared to, which he didn’t. And his voice didn’t work properly anymore, somehow —it didn’t do what he wanted, and something else he liked about being with Malfoy was that he never had to use it. Together, they were only hard kisses, tongues and teeth, rough hands and searching mouths and bucking together in dim light. He and Draco didn’t ask each other for anything, ever — it was more about taking what they could, _fast_ , like they were both convinced anything that felt good would be wrenched away. 

It took Harry half a year of shagging Draco regularly to work up to asking, even though he thought of it nearly every day — and every single time he wanked, roughly fisting his cock with one hand while tangling the other hand in his hair. Years ago, Harry had charmed his bed to look just like his four-poster from Hogwarts, in a pathetic attempt to help him sleep. Now, he used it as a pathetic attempt to pretend Draco was in the next bed over. But Harry could never recreate the feeling of that first time, and he knew there was only one person who could. 

***

The second time, Harry knew he’d have to ask. 

They fell into Draco’s bed fully clothed, already tangled together and snogging madly. Harry tore off his glasses, yanked his wand from his pocket, and tossed them both somewhere in the direction of a nightstand. His mind raced the way it did every time he was about to shag Malfoy, his heart beating too fast in his chest. 

Harry clambered on top of Draco, shoving his hands beneath Draco’s tight t-shirt. He could still smell the club on their clothes, and he buried his head in Draco’s hair so he could breathe in Draco instead. Malfoy was still impossibly long and lean, too skinny, really. Stretched out below him like this, Draco’s ribs jutted out, and the hollow of his stomach was too pronounced beneath Harry’s eager, searching hands. Harry suspected Draco was worse off now than he’d been after the war, too. But of course he didn’t, he wouldn’t, ask. 

Desire made Draco clumsy. Somehow, it blunted and confused the usual effortless grace that seemed to inhabit his body the rest of the time. Harry loved it, loved seeing Draco caught on his back foot. 

Awkwardly, Draco began to strip off his clothes, nearly getting his head stuck in his shirt, and dove for Harry’s belt and flies at the same time. But Harry stopped him — he wanted it to be just like the first time, when they’d been fully clothed, grinding together through frustrating layers of fabric. He couldn’t say the words, though, not quite, so he just brought Draco’s hands to his head, hoping that maybe he’d get the idea. He palmed Draco slow and hard through his trousers. 

Inhaling sharply at Harry’s touch on his prick, Draco instinctively tightened his hands in Harry’s hair. Harry gasped; the breath stuck in his throat. He stopped, frozen, all his focus drawn to Draco’s hands, and he couldn’t stop the needy growl deep in his throat. 

Draco noticed. He noticed everything, Harry thought.

Draco slowed and grew thoughtful. Nudging Harry, Draco flipped them so that he was sitting on top, their groins pressed together with Harry flat on his back. A shiver went through him — visible, he thought, to Draco — at how vulnerable he suddenly felt. This was the slowest they’d ever gone, and the exposure, the act of being _seen_ like this, made Harry tremble with anticipation and want and fear. 

Those long fingers slipped through Harry’s thick black hair and down around the back of his neck, tracing soft patterns on the tender skin there. Carefully, Draco ran his fingers with and then against the grain of Harry’s scruffy stubble; he felt his cheeks flame, and he had to swallow hard. Draco brushed along Harry’s scalp, touched the corner of his eyebrow, pressed the pad of his thumb to Harry’s temple. He felt it like a pulse point, like the beat of Draco's heart, burning hot.

Draco studied Harry, still mapping his face with his hands and his fierce gaze, eyes sweeping over him. They’d never done this before. The vulnerable feeling deepened, and Harry was too exposed, disarmed. He had a mad flash of panic, of wanting to run from the room, as Draco’s icy intelligent eyes seemed to reveal every bit of him. 

Reaching across Harry, Draco picked up the wand on the nightstand — Harry’s own wand, he realised, and since when did Malfoy cast with _his_ wand? — and aimed it effortlessly at the back of his own head. A crisp frisson of magic ghosted over them. Draco had Vanished his hair tie, so that his own hair swung down in two silky curtains.

It was as pin-straight as ever, longer and better kept than Harry’s, and so fine that tiny flyaway pieces escaped and stood on end. The pale blond was nearly white in the dim light. Tentative, Harry reached up and touched it for a moment, slipped his fingers in, felt the ridge at the back of Draco’s skull. Sometimes he still marvelled that he was allowed these small intimacies with Draco, that when they were in bed he was Harry’s to touch if he wished, and that thought gave him the courage to take one more step.

Locking eyes with Draco, Harry gathered the silky strands in his fist and gave one small pull. Not hard, just enough to feel Draco’s automatic resistance as he only allowed his head to be tugged back the slightest bit. Draco raised one of those infuriating, supercilious eyebrows. He tipped his chin toward Harry’s own hair, questioning. 

Harry swallowed hard and forced himself to nod. He was fighting himself, mounting desire gaining the upper hand over embarrassment for asking Draco for... well, asking him for anything, but especially this. He didn’t think he could speak. In Draco’s eyes, though, he saw a new click of realisation and, somehow, approval. Draco sat up again, on top of Harry, their groins flush. Harry kept himself perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe. 

Thoughtfully, carefully, Draco brought his hands to Harry’s head. Already he could feel his prick swelling, anticipation beginning to coil in his belly and tighten his throat.

“We need a word.” Draco looked down at him, all sharp angles and patrician chill. But his voice was rich and sweet, and his eyes burned. 

“About...?” Harry’s own voice was little more than a croak, because Draco’s hands were winding their way through Harry’s hair, soft and experimental, and he couldn’t put a sentence together, couldn’t _think_ , while someone touched him like that, while _Draco_ touched him like that, while he burned for those hands to do so much more. 

Draco huffed a quick little laugh. “Not a bloody conference. A safe word. That you can say if this” — Draco tightened his fists and tugged just the faintest bit— “gets to be too much.”

“Fuck,” Harry whispered, and Draco laughed at that, low in his throat. 

“‘Fuck’ is a terrible safe word, Potter.”

Harry laughed too, then, and it sounded unfamiliar even to his own ears. “Tosser. You pick a word, I don’t mind, whatever it is...” he let his voice trail off as he ground himself against Draco for the first time, wanting the friction through his clothes, testing the way that shifting his weight made Draco’s hands tighten in his hair. 

“Snape,” Draco said immediately, and Harry snorted with laughter again. 

“Fine—” and Draco leaned down and covered Harry’s mouth with his own, canting his hips and shoving up against Harry, so that he could feel Draco’s erection pressing against his. It was just like that first time. Harry’s control was already starting to slip.

Draco tipped his chin up again, questioning, asking without words. Harry nodded, silently, breathing so hard he was almost panting, desperate for Draco to go on.

Draco kept his eyes locked on Harry’s as he tugged his hair just a bit harder. Harry could feel the roots in the back now, could feel the tension drawing them tight. His breath was coming even faster, his chest rising quickly; he saw Draco notice. He tugged again, a longer and more even pull this time, and fuck, it was blinding. He bucked up to meet Draco and Draco arched against him, his hands still twisted in his hair.

Harry reached up to pull Draco closer, but Draco batted his hand away and pinned Harry’s wrist to the pillow for a brief moment, forcing it still. Harry writhed against the restriction. Draco’s breath grew harsher in his throat, his eyes heavy-lidded and smouldering.

Draco planted nips up Harry’s jawline, flicked his tongue at Harry’s earlobe and drew it into his mouth. Everywhere Draco touched came alive. He kissed along Harry’s jaw right until the moment when he gave a really proper pull to his hair, _hard_ , and Harry’s gasp was wrenched from his throat. It _hurt_ , so much that tears pricked behind his eyes, and it felt perfect. 

A single tear slipped down his cheek. Draco stilled, keeping Harry’s wrist pinned. Harry was frantic with need for him now, too worked up to keep the words from finally rising to the surface.

“No, Malfoy, fuck, don’t stop,” Harry whispered, gutted and pleading, closing his eyes against Draco’s too-direct gaze. “Please, fuck, please. I need to—need you— please—”

Draco ground against him slowly, far too slowly. He kissed the tear away and followed its trail with his tongue. He brought his lips to Harry’s closed eye, then the other one, impossibly gentle.

And then he tightened his hands and yanked Harry’s hair so hard that twin bursts of pain exploded in his head. He cried out, his eyes flew open, his whole body sang. The low hum of unfocused uneasiness that constantly buzzed inside him came to a point, drawing itself up to his scalp, exquisite in its sharpness. He could concentrate on the pain, for once, and pin it down. He knew where to put his attention, knew exactly what hurt and why.

It was brilliant.

Harry’s hips jolted up so violently that Draco was knocked off balance. His hands tightened involuntarily and he pulled on Harry’s hair again just to stay steady, less controlled this time, on accident just like the first time, and then Harry was coming so hard that the bursts behind his eyes grew into a wave rolling through his whole body. He ground into Draco as pleasure twisted up through every part of him and he was lost, blissfully gone, utterly taken away. Draco kept pressure on his hair and nipped at his neck as Harry writhed below him, riding out his orgasm, drawn out and quite possibly more intense than anything he’d ever felt before. Even though both of them were still fully clothed, even though Draco hadn’t touched his cock.

Finally, as Harry stilled beneath him, Draco untangled his hands. He smoothed back Harry’s hair and ran his fingers through it. When they caught lightly on small knots, he worked them out and even that felt brilliant, little electric jolts still rippling through Harry’s body. The roots of his hair were still stinging. 

“You wanted it to hurt,” Draco said softly. He rocked his own hips against Harry, and Harry could feel just how hard Draco was through his trousers.

“Yes.” It was hardly more than a breath; Harry could barely even make a sound. Draco rocked against him even harder, a lock of his fine hair in his eyes that he couldn’t be bothered to brush away. Harry stared off into the dim room. He was suddenly self-conscious about the way he’d come in his pants like a bloody teenager and, worse, that Draco _knew_ too much about him, suddenly, all at once. He couldn’t meet Draco’s gaze — until he caught Harry’s chin and turned his head to stare into his eyes. 

“Don’t be weird about it, Potter. You’re not the only wizard in the world who likes a little pain with their pleasure.”

Draco’s tone was strangely tender, almost too much for Harry to bear — until Draco let go of his chin and added “you absolute prat,” with a kinder but undeniable trace of his old sardonic drawl. It was both new and familiar, and somehow the combination lifted Harry’s heart. It was just a fraction, just a few breaths that felt a little easier than the others, but it was something.

Harry pulled Draco down, needing to feel his weight anchoring him. He palmed Draco through his trousers again, and watched his eyes flutter closed as they rolled back in his head.

And then Draco put one of his hands over Harry’s and slowly, deliberately, guided it up to his own head. He tangled it in his own hair. 

Harry felt an echo of that same electric fizz behind his eyes as he tightened his fist, ever so gently. Draco let his head tip back, exposing that impossibly long white neck. 

And for the first time in years, Harry began to see a way out, a way up, a way through.


End file.
